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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006928">See in technicolor</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nieded/pseuds/nieded'>nieded</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Body Dysphoria, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), I don't know, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multi, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Switching, Unsexy Eggpreg, Vaginal Sex, but i swear this is a romance, negotiation, really really a lot, snake biology, somehow this story became a story about gender dysphoria?, sometimes you just wanna write smut but instead you write feelings, species dysphoria?, this sounds like kinky sex, unfertilized eggs, yeah i went there</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:02:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,881</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29006928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nieded/pseuds/nieded</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>After the not-apocalypse and the pandemic of 2020, Crowley and Aziraphale settle down in their South Downs cottage. But just as they begin to feel truly safe, Crowley's biology flips everything on its head. </p><p>Heed the tags. This story addresses Crowley's more snake-like biology and his conflicted feelings while Aziraphale struggles to find the best ways to support him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>165</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Crowley's Demonic Side</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>See in technicolor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Hot cocoa is in order,” Aziraphale says, hands wrapped around his mug of tea. The wind shakes the trees outside, a proper autumn windstorm that causes the golden apple tree leaves to scatter over the garden. “Perhaps some pie by the fire.”</p><p>“Uh-huh.”</p><p>“You could run me a bath.”</p><p>“I could,” Crowley says, tilting his head. He is in full predator mode, leant up against their countertop in the kitchen, leaving only a breadth of space between their bodies. Aziraphale enjoys it when he gets like this, sharp-toothed, crowding his space. He used to do this differently. Before. That’s how Aziraphale categorises his life now, before Armageddon and after. Before, they would meet in theatres and on top of buses, and Crowley would circle around him, hands fisted at his sides, on alert for threats. Now, their little cottage is secure and cosy, and he can turn all of that predation towards the angel.</p><p>Aziraphale shivers. “You could take me upstairs. Lay me out on the bed.”</p><p>Crowley loves the bed. It’d been a point of contention between them when they merged their millennia-worth of stuff into the cottage. Aziraphale’s century-old mattress had to go, but he complained the entire time about how soft Crowley’s bed was, how extravagant, and couldn’t they shop for something a bit firmer? Not that Aziraphale had planned to sleep in it, but he’d fantasised about reading late into the night by moonlight, propped up against the headboard with his fingers carding through Crowley’s hair, and he would not be deterred from achieving his fantasy without the perfect bed.</p><p>Then Crowley showed him the proper way to break in a soft mattress, and Aziraphale was sold on the idea forever. Mentioning the bed is a surefire way to get Crowley riled up. They’d christened this house on it, all that decadent plushness, and Aziraphale is not ashamed to use that information to get what he wants, a right and proper buggering. </p><p>The windows rattle from the next burst of wind. Spooky, Crowley would call it. Romantic, Aziraphale thinks. “The pie and the bath can wait.”</p><p>Crowley gestures up the stairs and gives a mocking bow. “After you.” </p><p>Aziraphale swats him and laughs as he’s chased up the stairs. </p><p>The bedroom door creaks open before they even reach the top level and the bedside lamp flickers to life. The room is a mix of dark reds offset with robin’s egg blue, the free-floating shelves lined with books and records. Crowley had gone through and organised the thing by theme, Vivaldi’s <em> Spring </em>next to a first edition <em> Secret Garden</em>, Pink Floyd and <em> Animal Farm</em>, and Aziraphale likes to put an album on and read to him until he falls asleep.</p><p>Crowley backs him up until his knees hit the mattress and starts to undo his bowtie, each button of his shirt, the buckle of his belt. Aziraphale rarely wears a topcoat these days, comfortable in the homestead they’ve created for themselves. He loves this part, relishes it, the tug of Crowley’s fingers working open his clothes to skim under the loosened garments. The demon’s hands are always a bit cool to the touch, a shock at first that makes his skin turn to gooseflesh, a reminder that they’re at will to touch whenever they wish. It’s their first winter in their cottage, and Aziraphale still hasn’t gotten over that they can do this anytime they want. They’re free.</p><p>“Hey,” Crowley says, tapping his nose. “You wandered off on me.”</p><p>“Lost in thought, my dear,” Aziraphale says, shimmying out of his shirt. His trousers and pants fall to the floor, and he bounces on the bed as he tips backwards, leaning on his elbows to watch Crowley undress. “You better work harder to earn my attention.”</p><p>This earns him a growl followed by a hiss as Crowley yanks off his henley and shakes out of his jeans. “It’s bloody cold,” he complains. “Get off the covers.” </p><p>They finagle the sheets, kicking them to the foot of the bed before pulling them over their bodies, the top of the comforter tucked up to Crowley’s chin. Aziraphale pulls him by the wrists until he’s on top, pleased at the way the demon sighs into his heat, and then shifts their legs until their hips and groins meet. He lets out a soft gasp and rocks upwards.  </p><p>“Needy,” Crowley says.</p><p>“I know what I like.” </p><p>“‘M not complaining, angel. It’s my favourite part about you.” Then he sets to work, nipping at Aziraphale’s throat, gripping the soft flesh of his hips for purchase. Aziraphale wraps his legs around Crowley’s hips, giving him access to his arse, his cock jerking against his stomach when he feels a gentle finger circle his hole. </p><p>Crowley’s mouth is relentless, kissing him while he pushes a finger inside. Aziraphale feels it from the roots of his hair to his toes, how marvellous to be pinned down and possessed like this, to be cared for and loved. He rocks against Crowley’s fingers and keens for more, and Crowley complies, never leaving him wanting.</p><p>They don’t need to prep with such thorough consideration, but Aziraphale loves the tension, the wait. The build-up of desire is his favourite part, throat tight and stomach clenched in anticipation as Crowley drags the head of his cock against his hole. He hears a moan, but from a distance, underwater, too caught up in his need to think of anything beyond that first push. The stretch doesn’t hurt because he doesn’t expect it to, but it still leaves him short of breath, gulping in shallow heaves.</p><p>Crowley--not one for patience--has learned the art of sensuality for Aziraphale’s sake, letting gravity and the weight of his hips guide himself inside at a glacial pace. He’s covered by the blanket, but they’ve done this enough times for Aziraphale to imagine Crowley’s tense stomach, the muscles twitching with impatience, fingers dug into the sheets. There will be a time for abandon, most certainly if the angel has his way, but for now, this slow stretch is everything, all their love and desire narrowed down to the shivering burn where they’re joined. </p><p>“Fuck,” Crowley says, giving an experimental roll of his hips. </p><p>“Well, I hope so,” Aziraphale says in retort.</p><p>“Oh bugger you, shh.” Crowley groans again and presses his face into a pillow, rocking forward as he digs his finger into the angel’s thigh. </p><p>“My dearest darling, I can take it. Go faster.”</p><p>He nods, a fine glimmer of sweat gathering at his brow. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, all right.”</p><p>Crowley’s fingers tighten on Aziraphale’s legs for one brief moment before he shifts his weight and thrusts. His pace picks up, angling upwards to find the spot that makes Aziraphale’s head throw back into the pillows, sinking into the plush bedding. It takes him to the edge of his orgasm but no farther, a whine gathering in the back of his throat until Crowley shifts and takes his cock in hand in time with his thrusts.</p><p>Aziraphale tightens, bowing upwards before shivering and spilling over his stomach. He rocks through his orgasm, shuddering as Crowley loses all rhythm and his hips stutter. </p><p>“Oh, bloody hell--hea--aargh,” Crowley says, steadying himself as he slips out and off to the side. He plants his face in the mattress. It’s a lovely mattress. He kicks one leg out from under the blankets for ventilation. </p><p>Aziraphale, content and satiated, wiggles and gives him a sly smile. “Pie?” he asks, grinning when Crowley lets out a bark of a laugh. </p><p>“You’re on your own. There’s no way I’m getting out of bed until morning, sunshine.” </p><p>“That’s acceptable.” He reaches over and runs his hands through the demon’s hair, kissing him on the temple. It’s unbearably tender. Crowley’s eyes blink shut before he has the chance to even turn off the lamp, so Aziraphale leaves the light on and watches those slow and shallow breaths, Crowley’s fingers relaxing where they’d tangled in the sheets, for long, long minutes into the twilight.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Crowley wakes up face down with a crick in his neck. It’s hot under the covers, but it takes a good long second before his brain reconnects with his body, and he’s able to shimmy out. He glares back at the shining sun and jerks the curtains close with a wave of his hand, ignoring the cheery birdsong outside. </p><p>“Angel!” he shouts. He waits for a tick before sitting upright, dragging a hand over his face. The clock reads six am, and he frowns again. Six in the morning and the sun is out in the dead of winter? </p><p>He stands on shaky legs and snaps his fingers at the duvet to straighten out, sighing a bit when he sees the tartan pattern. They’d agreed to keep his maroon cover on until spring. He shakes his head. He won’t say it out loud, not where the angel could hear him, but it’s never worth the effort to fight over the tartan eking out territory in their cottage.</p><p>Crowley’s feet hurt as he drags himself down the steps, rubbing at his eyes. He forces himself to take long, slow blinks, clearing away the sleep. Coffee will help, he thinks, but then his stomach churns at the thought, and he lets out a miserable little hiss. Water, then. Fine.</p><p>“Angel?” he asks again, turning the corner into the empty kitchen. There are few signs of Aziraphale except for a half-drunk cup of tea abandoned on the island surrounded by a scattering of crumbs. There are fresh scones resting on the counter, and he can smell the lemons and cherries. “Cherries aren’t in season in the winter,” he tells the scones and then rubs at his nose, scowling at the overpowering scent. Where the bloody heck was Aziraphale?</p><p>Just then the door to the back garden creaks open, and the angel scrapes his goloshes on the stoop before stepping inside. His usual cheery face breaks out into an even bigger smile when he sees Crowley standing befuddled in the kitchen, and he shucks his sunhat and gloves off to the side.</p><p>“Crowley!” he says, delighted.</p><p>Crowley blinks back before raising a lazy hand in a wave. “Morning. What were you doing in the garden? It’s four degrees out there.”</p><p>Aziraphale stops in front of him, mid-way to a hug. Which is fine, Crowley thinks, though he’s usually not this excited to see him every morning. </p><p>“My dear,” Aziraphale says, hands hovering over his shoulders. “It’s spring.” </p><p>Aziraphale makes him a cup of tea and sits him down on the settee, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders. “That’s what you’re supposed to do for shock, isn’t it?” he says, muttering to himself. He wrings his hands a bit and then perches on the ottoman with his feet crossed at the ankle.</p><p>Crowley protests. “I’m not in shock.” He’s slept a whole winter before, hasn’t he? He wracks his brain in thought. He slept almost a century once, and then there was the summer of 2020 when he lost a good six months or more during the pandemic. Usually, his prolonged naps are planned, however, but this was a bit unexpected. </p><p>The last thing he remembers was a vigorous shag in the middle of a spooky windstorm just around All Hallows Eve, the kind of setting that led to a luxurious evening well-spent. “I guess you wore me out,” he says. </p><p>“I really tried to wake you up, but you wouldn’t budge. It reminded me that time I checked on you in the late 1800s; you were as lifeless as a sack of potatoes.”</p><p>He blinks, hands gripping around his teacup though the smell is giving him a headache. “You--?” Aziraphale had checked in on him after they fought in St. James Park? He shakes his head. “You put tartan on me.”</p><p>“Well, it is spring.” Aziraphale gestures out the window.</p><p>The angel’s not wrong. The sun is shining, filtering in beams between the budding tree branches. Crowley’s crocuses are sprouting up in little green spears through the soil. “I missed Christmas,” he says. “I missed <em> Halloween</em>.” </p><p>Aziraphale gives him a small smile behind his own teacup. “There’s always next year,” he says, savouring it as he speaks. “That’s the glory of being free.” </p><p>Crowley takes in the angel’s smile, his relaxed shoulders and little wiggle, and lets out a slow breath. It’s fine. “Still, I wanted to be awake to enjoy it.” </p><p>Aziraphale kisses him on the cheek, lingering for a moment before sealing their lips in a long slow press. Despite his cheeriness, there’s an ache to the kiss, a message. <em> I missed you</em>. “You must have needed the rest. The last few years caught up to you.” And then apropos of nothing, he adds, “Let’s go get breakfast.” </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They’d barely settled into a routine in their cottage before Crowley’s prolonged nap, but they find a rhythm together, one of languid dawns and busy mornings in the garden or baking in the kitchen. It feels good, happy and content. But something has been off ever since Crowley woke up. He feels wound up and antsy like he has energy in excess. There’s only so many times he can go out and weed the garden or turn the compost and trim the bushes, and he’s too restless to stretch out on the bench and just <em>bask </em>the way he’d dreamt of for millennia. </p><p>While he slept, Aziraphale had kept himself busy with hordes of estate sales, collecting book after book after book. He has a whole stack of them that teeter from floor to light fixture which he plans to go through and repair before not selling them to the public. He rebukes Crowley when he suggests eBay and shuts the door in his face. </p><p>Fine. Crowley paces across the living room and climbs the stairs. He’ll find something else to do. He winds up reorganising their books and records shelf by colour, then by date of publishing, and later by artists and authors he’s pretty sure at least one of them had a go at. His side of the shelf is a bit slim compared to Aziraphale’s, though the angel has only alluded to some of his past dalliances. He makes a bet with himself to see how long Aziraphale figures out the latest theme. </p><p>He puts his hands on his hips. Sex. Yep. Sex would be a good distraction right now, but his partner is buried under a mountain of books. Crowley looks at the bed he’d slept in for five months and grimaces before turning to the bathroom. With a snap of his fingers, the tub begins to fill, and he rummages through Aziraphale’s collection of fancy soaps and fragrances. He’s never been much for perfume, and most of these make his nose itch until he finds one made of tea tree oil and sandalwood that reminds him of the bookshop. He inhales it slowly from the bottle and feels his stomach tighten. Yeah, that’ll do nicely. </p><p>He banishes his clothes to the bedroom and dips a toe into the bathtub. The heat soaks through his feet, leaving him shivering as he trails a light hand down his chest. He pauses when he reaches his abdomen and frowns when he sees something that certainly hadn’t been there before.</p><p>Crowley isn’t opposed to having a vulva, it’s just that it’s not what he went to bed with, and it’s not something Aziraphale usually prefers. He stares at the flat curve of his stomach which dives into his pubic hair and wonders when he manifested new genitalia. With a shrug, he sinks into the water. It’s been a while since he’s presented like this, so maybe it’ll be fun, the sort of distraction he needs from his restless thoughts and body. </p><p>He starts with the soap, lathering his hands and running it down his arms and chest. He brings it up to his neck and hair, and the smell--so reminiscent of Aziraphale--goes straight south to his cunt. He dips his fingers into the water, letting the bubbles float away before trailing over his hip, stroking the inside of his thigh up to the crevice where his leg meets pelvis. The folds of his vulva are warm and the curls of his hair soft in the water. He caresses from his slit upwards to the hardening, aroused little nub of his clit, widening his legs as he circles with slow, gentle motions. </p><p>He imagines Aziraphale’s mouth there, lavishing the hood with languid licks, sucking it between his lips. He’d accompany it with two blunt fingers, no pretence, just a persistent push until Crowley’s body gave way, and Crowley finds his free hand travelling south between his folds, up inside, curling his fingers in little insistent thrusts.</p><p>The water rocks around him. His peak arcs quickly, a surprising and powerful tremor that splashes water over the edge of the tub as he shakes, legs clamped around his fingers. </p><p>Afterwards, he’s reluctant to pull his fingers out. He rocks them in and out until the water grows cold and he’s shivering, and even then he feels empty. He stands and clambers out of the tub, manifesting the thickest, warmest towel he can imagine and then snaps his fingers to banish his vulva for something more familiar. </p><p>Then he snaps his fingers again and gives a curious, confused little grunt. His stubborn body remains the same, still wet between his thighs from his orgasm. There’s a lingering ache of dissatisfaction that makes his gut squirm and his legs press together. He looks up at himself in the mirror and sucks in a sharp breath, running his hand over the scales cropping up over his throat, pink-red, almost the same colour as his flush. The scleras of his eyes have gone full yellow. </p><p>He manifests his clothes and slaps his sunglasses over his face before stalking out of the bathroom.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale emerges from the study feeling refreshed. He’s managed to tackle the bindings of at least three books, a tedious process that requires a deft and steady hand, and it leaves his shoulders hunched and in dire need of a good stretch. He vaults his arms over his head, luxuriating in the pull of muscles. There are so many little human idiosyncrasies he could forgo, but like food and fine wine and the red trail of hair down Crowley’s stomach, a good stretch is too pleasurable to live without. </p><p>“‘Lo,” he says, jaunting down the steps and around the corner into the kitchen. It’s midafternoon and the sun a blaze of heat through the windows. Crowley, for once, has come to a standstill, balanced on a stool with a glass of water in his hands. Aziraphale frowns when he sees the sunglasses, something Crowley has gone without inside their home since the day they first moved in, and takes in the unusual flush of his skin. </p><p>He comes around from behind and wraps his arms around those narrow shoulders, thin but muscled, flexing in surprise. He plants a kiss just behind his ear and breathes in, humming at the smell of sandalwood, an old favourite fragrance of his. “All right?” </p><p>Crowley shifts with a stiff and jerky shrug, a far cry from his usual cool composure. </p><p>“Will you tell me what’s wrong?”</p><p>He frowns, a thing he’s been doing a lot in the last few days, his face forever twisted downward in a grimace. “Not sure.” His voice sounds a bit breathy like a hiss. </p><p>Sometimes, Crowley gets like this when it gets too cold out or when the sun goes down, when the serpent inside of him starts to complain. Aziraphale runs his hands up and down his arms to warm him up and rests his chin on his head. </p><p>Crowley jolts, a little surge of electricity sparking in his head down his spine. Aziraphale feels him lean back into the touch, letting out a slow sigh. Then he turns in his arms and pulls the angel down for a kiss. Surprised, Aziraphale lets out a pleased little hum and leans into it, savouring the sinuous way the demon twists on his stool and presses into him with his body. </p><p>The kiss grows deeper and more urgent, pushed onward by Crowley’s incessant fingers, tugging at the angel’s buttons. Aziraphale’s whole body comes to life, reminded with sudden ferocity that it’s been at least five months since the last time they’d come together like this. </p><p>“Upstairs?” he asks, pulling Crowley to his feet. He doesn’t wait for an answer before taking him by the hand and leading him upward, his demon--his love--hot on his heels. They waste no time pushing through the bedroom and onto the bed, crashing into the plethora of pillows in a tangle of limbs.</p><p>Crowley rends Aziraphale’s shirt, tugging with clumsy fingers. “Angel, please,” he says, voice sibilant, vaulting upwards with need. He tilts his head back and exposes his throat, the protruding Adam's apple and rough red stubble that fades slowly into scales, pulling until Aziraphale tumbles on top of him.</p><p>Aziraphale lifts his hips in a feeble attempt to slow his arousal. He grabs at Crowley’s wrists where they claw at his clothes, shivering when the demon groans, his glasses skewed to one side to reveal the startling yellow of his eyes blown-wide. “Crowley, stop. Wait.” </p><p>The demon complies with a whine, twisting upwards when Aziraphale leans back to rest on his knees and drags a hand under Crowley’s shirt. He feels the smooth texture of scales, a smattering where his chest hair used to be, gathering below his navel and below the waistband of his jeans. It’s alluring and worrisome at the same time. He’s never seen him like this before.</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>“My dear. What--”</p><p>“I don’t know. I don’t--I dunno. Just. Please.” </p><p>Aziraphale stills, keeping a firm grip on Crowley’s twisting wrists. In the last five minutes, he’s heard the demon say <em>please </em>three times, a word he hasn't spoken in even his most desperate moments. “What’s happening to you?”</p><p>Crowley shakes his head. “I don’t know. I just need you. It <em> hurts </em>.” He breaks free and bucks Aziraphale off of him, jerking his trousers and pants down before pulling the angel back down on top of him. “Come on.” </p><p>Aziraphale exhales sharp and quick at the sight before him, his partner, his lover, stripped naked, red scales travelling downward like an arrow to the wet folds of his vulva, thighs slick and squirming. </p><p>“Stop thinking. Later. Need you now.”</p><p>“Right,” Aziraphale says, shifting his weight back so he can tug the rest of his shirt free. He slips out of his trousers and tosses them on a chair, and when he turns back, Crowley is flipped onto his stomach with his fingers snagging the pillows, a stark stripe of black scales accenting the knobs of his spine. </p><p>“Like this?” he asks. He waits for Crowley’s nod before sliding over him, draping himself along the demon’s back. </p><p>“Yesss.” </p><p>He hasn’t even entered him yet, but some of the tension bleeds out of Crowley under the weight of Aziraphale’s body. He holds him still, pressing kisses along his shoulder, the jut of his scapula, feeling Crowley’s body relax by small degrees with every touch. “Tell me what you need.” </p><p>It’s a rare thing to have him like this, Aziraphale thinks, watching him squirm. He shifts his weight and nudges Crowley’s thighs open, pressing the head of his cock against the wet, silken folds of his cunt. He feels more than hears Crowley keen, a vibration under the palm of his hand where he presses down to steady himself as he slides in with one, fluid thrust. </p><p>And, <em> oh</em>, it’s been a long time since he’s fucked this way. Aziraphale is an angel of the lord, not one who should enjoy pleasures of the flesh, and not certainly someone who should have preferences, but he’s always appreciated the male form more. He’d forgotten what this felt like, plush and indulgent, wet heat and rhythmic pressure made all the better because it’s Crowley. </p><p>He lies back down, draping himself over Crowley’s back, rocking in slow, deep thrusts. Crowley keeps up a litany of half-finished sentences and pleads, <em> yes, more. Angel--ah, </em>and then squeezes around his cock, his cunt fluttering in waves as he comes. </p><p>It’s too much. Aziraphale holds his hips down with a firm grip, pressing and holding himself inside as he releases wet pulses of come. They’d barely lasted a few minutes, but the orgasm overcomes him, shuddering through his body as his hips jerk forward of their own volition.</p><p>“Stay,” Crowley says, voice raspy but a little clearer. The sibilant hiss to his voice has faded. When Aziraphale shifts, he reaches back with one hand and grabs his wrist. “Stay inside me. Just for a little bit.”</p><p>Aziraphale feels himself softening, but pulls Crowley closer anyway, resting his nose against the delicate skin behind his ear. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Crowley falls asleep, but Aziraphale lies there wide awake. He has a hunch, but confirming it means leaving the warmth of their bed and the embrace of Crowley’s body. He swallows and eases himself off the edge of the mattress, careful not to disturb the covers before tiptoeing to the study. </p><p>It started as a bit of a lark, a funny thing the first time he picked up a book on herpetology. It was 1875, and Crowley had stopped responding to his telegrams. He saw the little black snake on the cover and mistook it for an adder, thinking it looked a bit like Crowley whose snake form he’d not seen for millennia. It turns out the picture was just a grass snake, a small harmless colubrid no wider than his pinky finger and maybe a foot-and-a-half long. He’d have to tell Crowley, he thought, if he ever spoke to him again.</p><p>He didn’t read the book. He set it down and threw an issue of the <em> Daily Telegraph </em>on top, shoving aside the pang he felt whenever he looked at it after a few too many glasses of wine in the backroom. It didn’t stop him, however, when he found another book on herpetology, this one about the wide and varied species of the Americas. He threw it on the growing pile until the stack had grown too large and tipped over, slipping under his desk, and that was the last he thought of it until they moved into the cottage. </p><p>It has not passed Aziraphale’s attention that Crowley takes great pains to hide his more snakelike features. It stung, honestly, when Aziraphale had come down into the kitchen earlier that day to see the old sunglasses affixed on his face. They didn’t do that anymore, hiding from each other, he’d thought. But perhaps he’d not been hiding from Aziraphale at all but more from himself. Caught in a fever, Crowley had been overcome, perplexed and anxious and needy over some surprise biological response, a need he’d never known he had somewhere deep under the scales of his underbelly. </p><p>Aziraphale pulls the books off the shelves and thumbs the table of contents, humming to himself. His thoughts wander, thinking about the flush of scales running down his chest, the matching black streak dipping into every crevice and bump of his spine, the wide glimmer of yellow eyes and cavernous slitted pupils. Has anyone ever seen Crowley in such a state before, he wonders? Is it just him?</p><p>An hour later, he steps out of the study and stalks back to the bedroom, surprised to find the bed empty and the sheets rumpled. He turns on his heel and checks the second most likely location to find his partner. He stops at the threshold of the garden to take in the sight of him, draped along the bench in the garden in the direct rays of the sun. It’s past four in the afternoon. It must have taken a miracle to make it shine for so long. </p><p>He crosses the stone path and lifts up Crowley’s legs, making room for himself on the bench before settling the unzipped snakeskin boots over his lap. Crowley grunts and jerks awake, eyes squinting in the sun. “Whatsit?”</p><p>Aziraphale studies him for a long moment. He seems more settled in his skin, though there’s an undercurrent of tension, like this is just a brief reprieve before the heat takes over again. “When’s the last time you slept through the winter?” he asks.</p><p>Crowley rubs at his face and struggles to sit up, his elbows digging into the wooden slats of the bench. He smacks his lips, his tongue dry and sticky on the roof of his mouth as he blinks his way into wakefulness. It’s a credit to the millennia they’ve known each other that he answers the question even though he’s just joined the conversation. “I mean, I’ve slept for a good long chunk of time before.” 1862, he does not say. “Months, years.”</p><p>“But they were planned, not a surprise like this last one?” Aziraphale thinks about the months he’d slept through the pandemic, setting his alarm further and further back as time drudged on. He’d wake up, check his newsfeed and call Aziraphale before rolling over to even out the pillow creases on both sides of his cheeks.  </p><p>“Eh, yeah. I mean, they were just--ah--you know. I was bored.” </p><p>Aziraphale purses lips. <em> Depressed</em>, he thinks. Crowley says a lot of words to skirt around the heart of things. His vocabulary is full of, ‘you knows,’ and ‘whosits’ and ‘that thing we did at that place,’ and Aziraphale does know. All of it. At least, he thought he did. “Otherwise, you’ve never just gone to sleep unexpectedly?”</p><p>Crowley narrows his eyes in suspicion. “What are you asking?”</p><p>“Not asking, more confirming a theory. This is the first full year we’ve really felt safe,” he says. They’d spent millennia looking over their shoulders, waiting for a higher authority to come strike them down. Then immediately after Armageddon, they’d been suspicious, jumping at every scare. Aziraphale can admit he didn’t feel really free until they settled into their cottage, and he assumes Crowley felt the same way. </p><p>He wrings his hands, unsure of the best way to proceed. Crowley has always been a bit <em>delicate </em>about the serpent crawling underneath the surface. “Perhaps you went into brumation now that you feel secure enough.” </p><p>Crowley scoffs. “I don’t <em>brumate</em>, angel. I’m not a sn--” He pauses and purses his lips. “I mean, I am a snake, but I’m not a snake-snake. Look at me. I’ve got arms and legs.”</p><p>“And I have burning wheels of fire and a thousand all-seeing eyes. We are both more than what we seem.” </p><p>“Yes, but you choose not to be those things. You choose to be you,” Crowley says, gesturing at the angel’s soft body, his tartan bow tie and sweater vest. The implication is loud and clear. <em> But I don’t get to choose to be me</em>. He chews his lip and squirms in his seat, legs shifting over Aziraphale’s lap, clearly uncomfortable. “And what if this is what you say it is. What then? I don’t <em> breed</em>, angel.” </p><p>Aziraphale cups his ankle through the thin nylon sock, runs his fingers over the fine points of bone, musing over Crowley’s layers of contradictions. He’s always so cool and collected, flash, the other demons called him. He has his layers of designer clothes, and under that, his flesh, and under that, an animal--the only animal really--that God ever had a hand in without the help of the angels. Crawl on your belly and eat dust all the days of your life and the like. Yet Crowley walks on two legs and loves with two arms and his hands that are wide-palmed and long-fingered, curious and nervous. He eats scones in the morning and drinks tea in the afternoon and goes days and days subsisting on only coffee just because he can, just because God said he couldn’t. </p><p>“I’m not going to… to <em>breed </em>you,” he says, stumbling over the words. “I haven’t--ah--mixed my essence with seminal fluid since, well, the whole thing with the Ark.” Now he sounds like Crowley, unable to say the words with direction, conviction. “I’m not trying to make you reproduce. What would that even be like, an angel and a demon? You might explode.”</p><p>Crowley pulls a face. </p><p>Aziraphale tightens his fingers around his ankle. Then he looks him in the eye, takes in the sight of his blood-red scales decorating his throat, the yellow eyes and sharp teeth. “I want to satisfy you, make you feel good the way you do me.” </p><p>“Making you feel good satisfies me plenty,” Crowley says, brushing him off. His arms are crossed over his chest, defensive like maybe Aziraphale is onto something. </p><p>“You have a need. I’m asking that you trust me to fulfil it.” Crowley looks away and swallows, his larynx bobbing in his throat. “I’m asking to be allowed to love all of you.” </p><p>Aziraphale watches him shift in his seat again and feels the muscles in his foot flex. He’ll go on like this for a few more days, quivering with insistent desire, uncomfortable without satiation. If he doesn’t want to have sex, Aziraphale will drop the issue, but he’ll hurt watching him struggle, fighting off this long denied part of himself that Aziraphale loves and loves and loves from the day he slithered up the wall in the Garden. </p><p>Crowley looks at him again with a rigid, resolute sort of expression. “Yeah, all right.” </p><p>“Only if you want.”</p><p>He waits with the practised patience of millennia as Crowley sorts it out in his head, wriggles his toes and rubs his thighs together, feeling out the shape of his body raging war against his brain. He nods. “Yeah, I want.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>They approach the bedroom with new trepidation. The urgency has worn off a bit after their initial coupling, but now they mean to do it with intention. Crowley stops at the foot of the bed and turns back to look at Aziraphale, his hands flapping his sides. He lets out a strained little laugh like he doesn’t know what to do. Aziraphale realises it’s not far off the mark, this being the first time he’s ever experienced something like a mating response, a heat. He tries to think of all the things that helped the first time, the gestures and touches that made Crowley keen and buck against him, and then reaches out and to put his hands on his hips.</p><p>He pushes gently until Crowley folds and sits on the edge of the bed, then he leans forward and wraps his arms around him, resting cheek against his hair. Crowley nudges up into him, and movement starts an undulation, a sinuous roll of his body against Aziraphale, eyes drifting shut. His mouth falls open, a wet hiss and a sigh escaping between his teeth. Aziraphale chases the sound, bringing their mouths together, kissing in long slow pulls, sharp nips and deep presses. </p><p>When Aziraphale pulls back to check in, Crowley blinks back at him, taking steadying breaths. “All right?”</p><p>“I feel weird,” he says, shaking his shoulders out. “Kinda… listless. I’m thinking too much.” </p><p>“Take your clothes off.” Aziraphale could miracle them away, banish them to the chair or back in the closet, but Crowley needs a simple task to focus him. </p><p>Crowley complies, pulling his shirt off and chucks it on the floor, ignoring the tut from his partner before moving on to his jeans. He hesitates on his pants before shimmying out of those next, folding his hands in his lap.</p><p>“Let me see.” </p><p>He lets out a protest and scoots back on the bed, long legs tangling in the sheets until his head is on the pillows. He drags a self-conscious hand towards his mons, covering the streak of red hair turned to scales. “We don’t do it like this,” he says, “ever.” </p><p>“That’s been my mistake, then,” Aziraphale says with a frown, still dressed head-to-toe down to his wingtip Oxfords. He uses the broad flat palm to nudge Crowley’s knees apart, revealing his sex. Aziraphale has always preferred his standard-issue corporation from the day he received it. He’s maybe grown more comfortable in it, softer, but he never saw reason to change things up. He’s been there for the scant few times Crowley presented as something different, sometimes more feminine and sometimes just sexless, wearing his skin like an aura, and he’s always loved him, from lace stockings to braces, broad-brimmed hats and fedoras. They’ve known each other for millennia, loved each other for centuries, but it’s only been recent that they’ve delved into each other like this, a world of possibilities open to them. </p><p>He runs a firm hand over the narrow swell of Crowley’s calf, then higher to dig into the flesh of his thigh. He braces his weight there and climbs onto the mattress, the heavy fabric of his trousers dragging against the duvet with a slow <em>shh shh </em>in the quiet of their room in counterpoint to his serpent’s deepening breaths. He crawls up that long, lean body, just a pale sliver against the sheets of their big wide bed, sinking into the soft down. He feels every dip, every shift of weight as Crowley rocks his hips in anticipation, and it leaves him hard, the wet tip of his erection smearing against the inside of his clothes. </p><p>“Let me see,” he repeats, dragging those lanky knees apart, revealing the wet cleave of Crowley’s cunt, clenching against the cool air. “What do you want?”</p><p>Crowley shakes his head. “I don’t know.” </p><p>“I know what I want.”</p><p>“Course you do, angel.” He says with such fondness before his breath hitches high in his throat. “What is it?” </p><p>Aziraphale lowers himself until he can smell Crowley’s wetness, until his breath brushes over the sensitive skin. “May I?”</p><p>Crowley snorts, fond and turned on and a bit impatient. He’d fantasised about this, brought himself off to the thought of those bow lips and sharp-witted tongue rending him to pieces. “You may,” he says, and then gasps when Aziraphale doesn’t hesitate but dives right in with firm drags of his tongue up one side of his labia, and then the other. “Fuck. Oh. <em> Oh</em>.” </p><p>Aziraphale brings his hands under his arse, encouraging those rocking hips to search for more pressure and friction. If Crowley cannot tell him what he needs, certainly his body will show him. He memorises every shudder and jerk, the low moans that turn high and airy, keening as he comes in one long wave of shivery bliss. </p><p>“Aziraphale, I need--I need it, please.” </p><p>He leans back on his haunches and wipes his face with the back of his hand. Aziraphale’s fingers work the small buttons of his cuffs and button-down in quick, precise movements. Crowley hisses when he returns to the floor to shuck his trousers, climbing back as soon as he can. </p><p>He rolls Crowley over on his stomach. He presses their bodies together from toe to shoulders. This time, he doesn’t hesitate sliding inside the warm vice of Crowley’s body, doesn’t wait to press deep with heavy thrusts, the bed frame creaking and their breaths hot and damp, mixed together in the small space between their cheeks and mouths. </p><p>This time, when he comes, Aziraphale stays inside as long as he can, imitating the feeling of being locked together. For a moment, he feels the briefest of regret over their unfruitful coupling, and then he comes back to himself with a shudder, oversensitive and overwhelmed by Crowley, this demon who shared his soft underbelly with him, bared his vulnerabilities and asked to be loved. </p><p>They come together several more times over the next few days, and in the between times, Aziraphale reads to Crowley, but not before huffing and reorganising the books and records while Crowley laughs, hanging off the side of the bed. </p><p>Crowley wanders through the cottage in a t-shirt, and he doesn’t bother to hide the yellow of his eyes, the smattering scales that have progressed down his arms and legs and up his neck. Aziraphale catches him staring at his reflection in the full-length mirror, like he’s never seen his own body before. He kisses him slowly, fingers tangling in his hair, and then leads him back to their very decadent, voluptuous bed to indulge a little more.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>One day, Crowley wakes up, and the edge is gone, the neediness burning off his skin in waves dissipates, and the cottage around him looks brighter and clearer than it has for weeks. He fumbles for his phone, full of battery because he expects it to be, and sees he’s lost another three days from being asleep. Still, he feels better than he has in months, loose-limbed and relaxed. He forces his eyes to blink, clearing away the last of vestiges of sleep and then sets off downstairs.</p><p><em> At the shops. --A, </em>the note says on the counter. Crowley pulls open the fridge to find it empty save for a stick of butter and a jar of jam. He turns instead to wander out to the garden to snarl at his neglected bulbs and creeping blackberry bushes and instead finds himself standing for long moments with his toes digging into the dirt, looking out over the sea.</p><p>It’s a shock. He’s lived his life one way for six thousand years. He thought he understood the limits of his body, his biology and physiology, and all it takes is a warm house to fend off winter and a cuddle to upend everything he thought he knew. He still doesn’t feel quite normal; he feels the serpent underneath the surface slithering through his vestigial veins, coiled tight around his stomach, his loins, his heart. It’s always been there, biding its time, waiting for a safe moment to thrash out of Crowley’s body. He’d spent so long trying to tamp it down, to stop Aziraphale from seeing it, like if they could just ignore the snake inside then the angel would forget he was keeping the company of a demon. </p><p>He feels a hot flush of shame when he thinks about it, how pressing the need was to be taken care of, to be <em>mated</em>. That angel--his bastard of an angel--had asked to be allowed to love him, and the serpent hissed <em>yes</em>, but the demon wondered just where the limits of that love are. How weird does Crowley’s body have to get before Aziraphale throws his hands up and says it’s too much, too strange, and too fast?</p><p>Crowley startles when he hears the front door slam, the sound of whistling and light footsteps through the house. The serpent coils tight, weighing the vibration of the distant footfalls, measuring the closing gap between them as the angel approaches. </p><p>“How are you feeling?” Aziraphale asks, running his hands up and down Crowley’s arms, petting the streak of black scales that span from shoulder to elbow before leaning in for a kiss.</p><p>Crowley bristles for a moment at being coddled but then settles and takes stock of himself. “I’m… good,” he says with hesitation. </p><p>“Back to normal?” </p><p>“I think so.”</p><p>Aziraphale nods, pleased. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? I enjoyed it very much.” He kisses Crowley on the neck, lingering as he brushes his lips over the smattering of scales. Then he returns back inside to put away the shopping while Crowley stands there stunned.</p><p>To hear Aziraphale say so casually that he enjoyed it leaves him a little breathless, the memory of it all leaving his knees weak.</p><p>He still hasn’t banished his vulva. It feels a bit tender and overused, and he has this fear that if he sends it away, it’ll come back feeling just the same the next time around. And he wants to banish the scales, but there’s a battle waging inside of him, a quiet hissing voice asking to stay. He brings a hand up to his throat where Aziraphale had planted a kiss moments before and drags the pads of his fingers over the smooths scales, dry and silken, not ready yet to send them to another plane of existence. Somewhere in the universe, there’s a Crowley that is scaled from head to toe, a long slithering serpent with blood-red scutes and iridescent scales, a Crowley that has not existed since the Garden, that he’s refused to acknowledge, a shadow crawling in the back of his mind. </p><p>Maybe Aziraphale was onto something about feeling safe, he thinks. Then he shakes himself out and tramps off to the shed to find a sickle to deal with the overrun blackberry bushes. </p><p>The next morning, he stalks the house with his plant mister, hissing at the succulents on the kitchen windowsill, the finicky wood violets in the humid shade of the bathroom, hidden just outside the shine of the skylight. He picks leaves off of the lemon tree in Aziraphale’s study, snarling that its colour is too pale, its blossoms too few, the citrusy smell not sharp and astringent enough. </p><p>On his way out, he trips on a stack of old books, the titles catching his eye: <em> The History of Herpetology </em>and <em> Herpetology: an Introduction</em>. <em> The Field Guide for Herping in the United Kingdom. </em>He picks one out at random and flips through the pages, dusty and mildewed. He checks the copyright and ignores the swell of fondness and hot embarrassment when he sees it was published in the 1800s. He doesn’t know what to think or what it means that Aziraphale has been collecting books on snakes for over a century. </p><p>He flips it open to Aziraphale’s bookmark, probably where he had pieced together the truth of Crowley’s brumation. Then he skims a few pages beyond until he catches a glimpse of words that make his fingers spasm around the binding of the book.</p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>Female snakes will on rare occasions lay clutches of infertile eggs without the presence of a male. If a male is infertile, the female may also lay a clutch of unfertilised eggs, colloquially known as slugs.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em> On rare occasions, the process called parthenogenesis can result in viable offspring without a mate in certain species, though studies show an increasing number of documented cases of these “virgin births.” </em>
  </p>
</blockquote><p>Empty clutches and virgin births? Crowley throws his head back and looks at the ceiling. “This is a joke to you, isn’t it? All just a big laugh?” He throws the books down, satisfied with the way it crashes into the rest of the pile and causes the whole thing to slide. He stalks out of the room and makes it halfway to the hall before doubling back to stack them in a precarious tower where he found them, but he still slams the door on the way out for good measure.</p><p>Downstairs, he tosses the decorative pillows on their sectional in a heap behind the ottoman and reorganises the knick-knacks lined up on the mantle. He counts five different pewter snuff boxes, all with similar engravings, and the only thing that stops him from throwing them in the garbage is the frown on Aziraphale’s face when he walks in from his morning constitutional walk. </p><p>“All right?”</p><p>He hisses before clearing his throat, turning it into a snarl. “Yeah, fine.” </p><p>He stomps back upstairs and closes the bathroom door. He undresses in front of the floor mirror and stands with his knees locked, slouched, hands limp at his sides. He turns to one side and prods at the small swell of his stomach, barely noticeable, but there all the same, a sign that some fundamental thing has changed inside him. He’s no longer just a fallen angel or a demon or a traitor or any of the other labels he’s worn like badges. </p><p>There’s a likelihood--a very small chance--that Crowley may be a creator again, and he doesn’t know what to feel about it. </p><p>He dresses in loose joggers and a long black tunic, not that anyone would notice the slight change in his shape, but as the days progress he feels his stomach harden, tender when he pokes at it. </p><p>“You haven’t eaten since you’ve woken up in March,” Aziraphale says, fretting. </p><p>The thought of food makes him nauseous, and he shakes his head. “‘M not hungry,” he protests. </p><p>And then one morning he wakes up and can’t see a thing, his eyes clouded over in a milky film, certain that his scales have taken on a grey hue, that his scutes have faded to a pale pink instead of their danger-red. It sets off a primal terror, a fit of riotous anger thrashing against his sternum. “Bugger.” He rolls over and reaches with a blind hand until he finds Aziraphale’s book and slaps it out of his hand. “Did you know,” he says in lieu of a ‘good morning,’ “that some snakes can lay almost a hundred eggs at a time?” </p><p>He hears Aziraphale fix his bookmark and close the book in his lap. “Um.” </p><p>“Some snakes that live in colder climates give live births, even.”</p><p>Aziraphale lets out a startled sound, a protest. “I told you, I didn’t actually inseminate you.” He trips over the words as he says them, and Crowley is certain he’s blushing, his eyes wide. </p><p>Crowley bulldozes over him. “Sometimes,” he continues, a little vicious and full of spite, “snakes reproduce asexually and have virgin births. I’m the bloody Virgin Mary.” </p><p>There’s a long silence. Crowley can imagine the look on Aziraphale’s face, the way he puckers his lips when he struggles for the right words to say, one finger poised in the air like balancing a thought on his fingertip. “Are you… You’re not… What exactly are you saying?”</p><p>“I’m in a pre-lay shed. Can’t see for shit.” He lets out a bark of a laugh, bitter and tight. “You said you wanted all of me, so here it is.” </p><p>Another long silence follows. Crowley doesn’t think the angel will leave. They’ve been stuck together for far too long, put their backs together and shouted at the rest of Heaven and Hell until they buggered off. There’s no one else left but him. He’s disgusted though, probably. Crowley would be.</p><p>“I did say that, didn’t I?” Aziraphale asks, sliding a hand across the sheets. Crowley hears him approach, feels his heat, and then there’s skin and warm fingertips sliding over his torso, dragging him closer, a nose pressed against the scales tucked under his chin. A hand travels over his abdomen, curious and careful, feeling the strange firmness. “Does it hurt?”</p><p>Crowley shakes his head, fighting the hot, swelling feeling in his chest when Aziraphale stays, kissing him on the cheek. </p><p>“Good. I’m glad. What would help?”</p><p>What Crowley needs is a dark space to stay hidden for the next day until the cloudiness passes. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, words ballooning away, breath caught in his trachea. His vestigial body that looks human enough has given way to the serpent. He shakes his head. </p><p>“Shall I read to you, my dear?” </p><p>He doesn’t say please. He doesn’t say a thing. Aziraphale opens his book anyway and picks up where he left off with his low voice a gentle rumble, ignoring the way Crowley fists his hands in the sheets.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Beyond their brief conversation in bed, Crowley won’t espouse any further on the growing eggs inside his abdomen. Aziraphale asks questions. Are you okay? What does it feel like? Do you--do you think that they’re actually, um, fertile? </p><p>What would he do with fertile eggs? Could he banish them away, soak them in holy water? He doesn’t even know how many there are, and that’s a frightful thought. There’s a horror growing inside of him, taking over, and he’s helpless to stop it. </p><p>He hides in the bathroom for an entire day when his skin starts to peel. He’s not a true snake, his scales scattered down his body instead of in one long line. He sheds in pieces that itch and clog the bathtub drain, taking forever to slough off. Crowley thinks this might be the worst shed he’s ever had. It’s only happened a scant few times, but he’d been able to shapeshift and deal with it in a different body. Now he’s too afraid that if he shifts, he won’t ever be able to change back.</p><p>But the worst part is waking up in the middle of the night to a seizing cramp in his abdomen and a sheen of sweat gathered on his face and neck, an instinctual terror scrambling through him.</p><p>“All right?”</p><p>Crowley is tired of hearing that question. It’s been weeks of this, one thing followed by another, an unexpected sleep, a heat, a shed, and the involuntary pain of peristalsis, the moment of truth. “Yeah, I’m fine.”</p><p>“Crowley, please.” </p><p>Aziraphale reaches for him, and he pushes him off, stumbling out of the bedroom. He locks himself in the bathroom. His back drags against the door as he slides to the floor, the scrape of wood a small grounding comfort as another contraction shakes through him. It’s uncomfortable and full, begging to burst out. He’s tired. He’s just so fucking tired.</p><p>There’s a knock at the door which he ignores. This time, Aziraphale doesn’t ask, just miracles the latch free and pushes his way in. He doesn’t even glance at Crowley, stepping over him to get to the bath. “Get in,” he says with a bite to his voice. He’s red in the face, using jerky movements to turn the knobs of the faucet on. </p><p>Crowley doesn’t move, another wave crashing into him, and Aziraphale rolls up his sleeves and snaps his fingers, banishing away his clothes before hoisting him up and chucking him without ceremony into the hot water. “Angel, what--”</p><p>“No,” Aziraphale says, cutting him off. “You listen to me. I know you are having some sort of existential crisis, but you don’t get to cut me out.”</p><p>Crowley lets out a broken, wounded sound. He feels disgusting. He can’t let Aziraphale see him like this, the worst parts of himself. “I’m trying to spare you.”</p><p>“I love you, Crowley. You don’t get to spare me.” Then Aziraphale sits down on the cold tile and throws his arm into the water, the sleeves of his shirt dragging in the water as he fumbles for the demon’s hand.</p><p>Crowley squeezes and hisses, feeling his insides shift through another contraction, a strange sense of pressure followed by panic. They’re small in size, but the fear that they might get stuck inside of him forever is powerful and cloying.</p><p>There’s a soothing hand running circles on his back, soft but strong manicured fingers tangled with his own, the smell of sandalwood and tea tree oil and ozone that burns the back of his throat. The voice beside him reminds him to breathe, and he barks back a few sharp expletives before being interrupted by a brief surprise of relief as the first egg slips out. He pants, letting out a laugh that sounds more like a shudder. “Fuck,” he says, and then the next wave hits him and steals the rest of his breath away with a punch. </p><p>Aziraphale stays with him through it all, wiping his hair from his face. It only lasts another ten minutes, but it feels like hours, each egg passing a little easier until it’s over and the water has gone cold. Crowley rests his head on the cool porcelain edge of the tub and fumbles blindly through the water until he finds something soft and warm. </p><p>He holds the egg up. It fits in the palm of his hand, the shape of it narrow and pinched at the ends. It's yellow in colour and has a rubbery feel when he applies the lightest push of pressure. A feeling swells up and clogs his throat, a mix of relief and sorrow and exhaustion all combatting to overtake him. </p><p>They were unfertile after all. </p><p>“For the best,” he says, voice hoarse. </p><p>Aziraphale says nothing, neither disagreeing nor agreeing. He leans over and kisses him on the mouth, allowing Crowley to press his damp head into his shoulder, soaking through his shirt. </p><p>He closes his eyes and rests for a moment on that broad shoulder, feeling the give of skin and fat and muscle that makes up Aziraphale’s corporation. He’s just sinew and bones with no surprises. Just flesh. </p><p>Then Crowley sits up and stares at the water for a long moment before snapping his fingers, banishing the slugs and the water and everything else until he’s standing sexless in a dry tub, not a scale in sight. </p><p>Aziraphale watches him slink out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Then he buries his hands in his face and lets out one dry sob. </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It takes two weeks of awkward mornings over coffee and silent dinners. Crowley is ravenous, eating everything in sight. He wakes early in the mornings and spends long hours in the garden, his skin freckling, reminiscent of the scales that had spread down his limbs, his spine, and stomach. Then he crawls into bed, exhausted, and sleeps until morning to do it all over again.</p><p>He doesn’t come in one evening. Aziraphale catches sight of his hands wrapped around his thin arms, combatting the cooling summer night. He’s standing in the dirt of a flowerbed, staring over the ocean in his bare feet. Aziraphale stops just before they’re touching, unsure if it’d be welcome, but then the demon leans back, closing the gap between them, trusting that Aziraphale will catch him. </p><p>“I’m sorry for being a shit,” Crowley says. </p><p>“I think I understand, at least a little bit.” Aziraphale knows he will never recognise the full breadth of it. How could he when Crowley doesn’t understand it all himself? “You know that I love you, yes? You know what that entails?”</p><p>Crowley nods, though he only has an inkling, just the faintest idea of how deep this thing between them might go. It’s taken weeks for him to wrap his head around the thought that this love between them has depths yet to be discovered, that he has depths yet to be discovered. “I got a little freaked out,” he admits.</p><p>“Just a bit,” Aziraphale says. “Understandable, really. Next year, we’ll be more prepared.”</p><p>Crowley sputters. <em> Next year</em>. Bloody hell. He feels Aziraphale smile against his ear. He snorts and turns to face the angel. “How about you take me upstairs, and we have a lie around on the bed?” He’s still sexless, still run ragged inside, but he’s missed the closeness. He’s missed Aziraphale’s reverent hands and his kisses down the back of his neck. He’s getting used to the idea that he has his angel’s devotion. Slowly.</p><p>He watches Aziraphale’s face closely, relieved to see that old familiar smile, a flicker of lust and the flush of his cheeks. “My dear, I never thought you’d ask.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>1. Title is from Young the Giant's "Heat of the Summer."</p><p>2. This is, once again, just me weirdly projecting my issues onto my favorite emotional support snake. </p><p>3. Parthenogenesis and live births are just two really cool things that can happen in snake reproduction, specifically with my favorite species, BCIs! I know that Crowley resembles a red-bellied snake, but he's also a demon and a fallen angel, and I don't think there's a good way to categorize what he is exactly. The whole point of this, I guess, is that Crowley doesn't even know himself. </p><p>4. Subscribe for more snake facts!</p><p>As always, you can follow me on tumblr @nieded &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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